


The feeling of your skin locked in my head

by remyllian_fire



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-14
Updated: 2015-11-14
Packaged: 2018-05-01 14:53:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5210069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/remyllian_fire/pseuds/remyllian_fire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Getting drunk and serenading Derek with pop songs is a perfectly rational thing to do in the middle of the night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The feeling of your skin locked in my head

**Author's Note:**

> Title was stolen from Tove Lo's "Talking Body." This is also on my [tumblr](http://rugbyhowl.tumblr.com).

_~1k of drunk Stiles that came into being when I spent a few days listening only to Tove Lo. Cross-posted on ao3 because that’s how I do._

"No, buddy, go ahead. You haven't seen Kira in weeks. Take your time."

Stiles is drunk. He shouldn't be offering to stay away from their apartment just because Scott wants some privacy with Kira, but none of them are sober enough to really think through what that means for Stiles. But it's only been an hour since bar close, so it's not too late to be wandering drunk. It's not even too late for him to be singing outside Derek's door. Directly into the door, really.

"I don't think you're even home," he says finally, after what he's certain has been forever. Definitely hours. So he sits, leaning against the door for support. It only takes him a couple attempts to unlock his phone before he calls Derek. It rings and rings and rings. Maybe it's just echoing in his head, instead of ringing on repeat. It’s hard to tell.

"H'lo?" Derek sounds muffled, like he's talking through a mouthful of cotton. He sounds soft and sleepy. Imagining Derek with sleep-tousled hair makes Stiles melt. At least the door is there to catch him.

"You sound like a cloud," Stiles tells him, choking out a laugh. "Probably cumulus."

"Stiles?" Derek sounds a little more alert this time. Stiles already misses the cloud voice. "You sound drunk. And it's... really late. Are you okay?"

"Why'd you think I'm drunk?"

"You called me, at three in the morning, to tell me my voice sounds like clouds. And you're sober?"

"What, do you think you're worthy of drunk calls, buddy?"

"I must be."

Stiles closes his eyes, tries to move his mouth into shapes that sound like sobriety. Like something that doesn't annoy Derek.

"You're not. Even if you do sound like cotton candy when you're sleep." He doesn't remember how to keep from annoying Derek. Did he ever have a clue?

"That's-- that's insane. Why am I even arguing--"

"I want to taste your voice, Derek." So much for exhibiting restraint and reason.

He opens his eyes only to notice that he's slipped so far down the door that he's no longer touching it. Instead, he's on concrete. He hears a heavy sigh over the phone. Or maybe it's his own. All right, he definitely has to admit that he's drunk.

"Stop sighing at me, you monster. I can  _hear_  your eyes rolling."

"Stiles." That sigh is definitely Derek's. "Please, you're... you don't..."

But Derek lets the words fall away unspoken. Or maybe Stiles just doesn't hear them. He doesn't know what that means. He wants to see Derek, wants to wrap himself around him, wants to feel his warmth.

"You're always in my head, dude," Stiles whispers. Can hardly stand to hear himself admit it. "It's like.... I can feel your ghost on my skin all the time. Can you be alive and have a ghost? Is that a werewolf thing?"

There's nothing but silence over the line, the empty quiet stretching on long enough that Stiles shuts his eyes, starts drifting towards sleep.

"Where are you?"

Stiles looks up, expecting to see Derek before he remembers they're still on the phone.

"On the ground. Outside your door. Staring at your pretty car in the lot."

"Are you-- you've got to be kidding me."

And then there's a quiet click that Stiles only vaguely acknowledges as Derek hanging up on him. He blinks hard. He blinks hard, twice, because he  _doesn't_  care.

"Shouldn't be on the ground. Nobody's gonna like a guy who naps on sidewalks." He doesn't know if he's trying to scold or encourage himself. He covers his face with an arm, but his in darkness for only a moment before he feels himself being pulled to his feet.

"Derek," he whispers, awed, when he looks in front of him. Derek's not looking at him, thought. Just leads him away.

"You're outside the wrong door, dumbass."

"Wait. No, you're wrong. That's definitely your door. I sang to you! I sang sweet melodies about wanting your body. It has to be your door."

But he lets himself be guided away, around the building and inside, pushed gently up the stairs.

"Okay," Stiles admits, looking around. "You're right.  _This_  is your apartment."

"Thanks," Derek says with a smirk. Or maybe it's a normal smile. Smirks are more common here, but this has the warmth of a real smile. He's still wondering the difference, if there is one, when Derek shoves him at the bed.

"Sleep."

"What if I don't want to sleep yet?" Stiles asks even though he's already grabbing a pillow, claiming it as his own.

"I don't care. You woke me up. Now sleep."

"What about you-" he cuts himself off when the lights are flicked off without warning, and he feels the bed dip behind him. He wants to turn around, wants to see Derek's face, but an arm slides around his waist, pulling them snugly together.

"Sleep," Derek repeats, softer this time.

"Okay." It's easy to slip into unconsciousness, and he thinks must already be dreaming when he feels Derek nuzzling at his neck. It's a nice dream.

\-----

He wakes with a jolt when Derek gets out of bed hours later, the movement startling him. He whimpers when he's left with only the warm imprint of Derek's body in his wake. He crawls into that space and tries to ignore the pounding in his head, hoping for sleep. It doesn't work. He's still awake when Derek comes back and shoves a bottle of water at him. Something heavy and comfortable settles in Stiles, but he knows he's already messed up.

"Derek, I'm sorry," he mutters, his voice distorted with sleep and uncertainty. "I'm really sorry, I shouldn't have-"

Derek stops him abruptly with a hand over his mouth. He's inches from where Stiles is sprawled and his hand is on Stiles’ face, but avoids eye contact.

"Unless if you don't want to be here with me, please... I don't want you to apologize for anything."

Stiles watches him, eyes wide. He slowly nods his head, shaking Derek's hand off and trying desperately to process his words.

"I don't-- I mean, I do. I want to be here." He sits up, slowing instantly at the resurgence of pain in his head. He takes Derek's face between his palms, forcing him to look. "I want to kiss you, so please, please tell me I'm reading this right."

Derek doesn't tell him anything. Instead he kisses Stiles and it’s soft, sweet, unhurried. Hands gentler than Stiles thought possible push and pull in better ways than he's ever imagined. He doesn't pull away until the throbbing in his head forces him to. He rests his cheek on Derek's shoulder, unmoving. Derek doesn't let go, just lets him be still.

"You don't taste like cotton candy."


End file.
